


Turning

by FanficMagicalGirl



Category: Mahou Shoujo Madoka Magika | Puella Magi Madoka Magica
Genre: Being Homura Is Suffering, Being Meguca Is Suffering, Constructive Criticism Welcome, F/F, Les Misérables References, Puella Magi Madoka Magica Spoilers, Songfic, Time Loop
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-17
Updated: 2019-05-17
Packaged: 2020-03-07 00:45:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,353
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18862327
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FanficMagicalGirl/pseuds/FanficMagicalGirl
Summary: Homura works her way through time, watching it spin around her and the people she cares about. Forced to watch the deaths of those around her, she has only one option: keep going. (A songfic for Turning from Les Miserables)





	Turning

_ Did you see them going off to fight? _

_ Children of the barricade who didn't last the night? _

_ Did you see them lying where they died? _

_ Someone used to cradle them and kiss them when they cried. _

_ Did you see them lying side by side? _

Homura held onto her gun like a child’s security blanket, holding it tight to her chest as she sobbed. The witch’s familiars danced around her as the creature itself spun and swirled. Mami Tomoe’s body tumbled from the sky, blood and ribbons streaming around her falling corpse as the witch spun as though she had never been there. The body fell to the ground with a sickening splat. Homura’s knees quivered as yellow light exploded around the form, finally confirming that Mami was dead. She felt her legs move almost of their own accord, carrying her not into the battle she was sworn to fight but away, out of the labyrinth. She broke free from the hell-world of lace and silk, face soaked and body shaking. Her knees buckled beneath her. Mami was gone. Mami, her leader, her teacher, her partner, her friend. What was she going to do now?

_ Who will wake them? _

_ No one ever will _

_ No one ever told them that a summer day can kill _

Madoka held her head in her hands, shaking as her tears fell. “Can’t any of us do anything? We’re magical girls! Why can’t we do anything?” Homura just set a hand on her shoulder, knowing her presence was all she could provide. Madoka’s pink hair, no longer in her usual jovial pigtails, fell down her back. She slumped forward. “This shouldn’t happen. Not to magical girls, not to Mami. I should have been there, I should have done something, it should have been me.” Homura just squeezed her shoulder, unable to tell her no, it should not have been her. She was everything, all that mattered. Homura would burn down the world for her, would sacrifice Mami, Sayaka, her own life to protect her. All she could do was stay with her.

_ They were school boys never held a gun _

_ Fighting for a new world that would rise up like the sun _

_ Where's that new world when the fighting's done? _

Sayaka Miki was brave. She fought like a falling star, a brilliant but ephemeral blaze of glory, ignorant of just how temporary it all was, still basking in the glow of her wish, unprepared for the repercussions of the choice she had made. A witch was still a faceless foe to her, her enemy rather than the inevitable ending, foul creature instead of fallen comrade. She spun and swirled with her swords, as much dancer as soldier, until the very end. The blue void of the box witch had consumed her in the end, familiars pulling her limb from limb as the witch blasted through her gut, her soul gem burned away alongside her body. Kyousuke barely grieved. Homura didn’t either.

_ Nothing changes; nothing ever will _

_ Every year another brat _

_ another mouth to fill _

Each new magical girl was a strain on an already broken system. Homura had seen it again and again, the eyes of a child barely old enough to cross the street without holding a parent’s hand staring back at her from the business end of a gun as she struggled to pull the trigger. She’d never done it, but she’d never need to. They were born, and hours, days, a week at most, later, they were gone. Kyubey didn’t care. Nobody did. Once upon a time, she’d tried to mourn them for a death no one would ever know they’d died. But placing lilies in a parking garage warehouse, upon an empty, nameless, faceless grave becomes mundane and hollow in the unending cycle. This time around, she didn’t bother.

_ Same old story, what's the use of tears? _

_ What's the use of praying if there's nobody who hears? _

Kyouko Sakura sat on the altar of an abandoned church among the colorful shards of broken glass and painful memories. Homura fidgeted with her bows as she listened to a story she had heard again and again but lacked the heart to tell Kyouko she didn’t want to hear. Instead, she sat and listened out of a sense of duty, providing a familiar response to familiar questions. Kyouko didn’t cry, so she assumed she was safe to do so as well. Sunlight filtered down from the sky, lighting Kyouko’s scarlet hair. Homura ran her fingers along the rotted wood as Kyouko kept talking, finally coming to a stop as she finally admitted what her father had done to her mother, to Momo, to himself. Her voice faltered as she choked out the words. Homura met her eyes and nodded.

Kyouko glanced to the scorched remains of the house, visible through the broken window and began muttering under her breath. It was such a foreign action that it took Homura a moment to realize what she was doing. Kyouko was praying. Somehow, she still had faith in something more. Not only that, but she believed that that something more cared about and wanted to help her. If only things were that easy.

_ Turning, turning, turning, turning, turning through the years _

_ Turning, turning, turning through the years _

An ash-colored sky loomed over Homura, the bright lights of the city illuminating her slightly. The witch’s laughter rang out – loud, wild, and wickedly gleeful. Madoka lay beside Homura, uniform soaked with blood and soul gem a dark rosewood color with tendrils of black weaving through it. Kyouko lay barely inches away, blood obscured by the deep scarlet of her uniform, a long shard through her gut. “Homura…” Madoka groaned. Homura just nodded, hand running through her shield in search of a grief seed she knew she didn’t have. “I… l…lo...lo…love…” Homura set a hand on her shoulder and nodded. Madoka forced herself to sit up. One of her signature twintails had fallen out, leaving half of her hair brushing against her shoulder, the ribbon long gone.

She leaned forward and, softly, tentatively, kissed Homura. Homura leaned into it, letting her fingers trail through her hair, fingers coiling around the red ribbon as she pulled the other twintail free. Time paused there for a moment, nothing else mattering, before Madoka pulled away. With a sound like glass shattering, painfully cheery and quick for the end of a life, her soul gem exploded. A grief seed blossomed into existence as Madoka’s body slumped backwards.

For a moment, all was still. Then, inky black mist blew out of the seed, spiraling skyward and blooming into a figure all its own. Crying, Homura stuffed the ribbon into her shield and grasped the hourglass hidden deep inside it. With one last glance toward the growing witch, she spun the hourglass.

Her eyes opened to a sterile hospital room, with a calendar marked a month earlier.

_ Minutes into hours and the hours into years _

_ Nothing changes, nothing ever can _

_ Round and round the roundabout and back where you began! _

_ Round and round and back where you began! _

Again and again, she wove her way in and out of time, back and forth. Homura marched through it over and over, watching the people around her rise and fall like waves as she carried on. Through it all, Madoka remain her beacon, her lighthouse. She watched her, too, rise and fall. Every single time, she died or became a witch. Homura’s heart shattered every time, strengthening her resolve. Slowly, her strategy changed. More and more, she stepped away from Madoka, trying to save her from a distance. It didn’t matter if Madoka liked her; It didn’t matter if Madoka knew her.

Once again, Homura stood under the artificial twilight, rubble scattered around her and laughter echoing through the ruins of the city. Madoka tumbled toward the ground, pink light streaming around her as she fell with a sickening crack. Homura reached into her shield, momentarily coiling her fingers around the ragged, faded ribbon before wrapping them around neck of the hourglass. With a sigh, she flipped it back.


End file.
